Since the Flood

On Saturday afternoon, the water receded by four inches and cleared the floor. It had risen to the ground floor level the previous day in an abrupt pace and all the things lying on the floor were hastily mounted on empty tables, racks, cupboards, and beds.

The previous two summers had been floodless. The latest embankment installed against the river two years earlier had been successful so far in keeping the water at bay. But it was poorly built. A good specimen of the Brahmaputrian embankment the people have seen over the last five decades. A business venture; A bullet in the eternal manifesto of Assam. 

So, when part of the embankment towards its western end snapped, three days prior to my arrival at the village on Sunday, some two kilometers away from my home, the water drowned the villages immediate to the breach and spread to the surrounding lowlands. It came swiftly and unannounced. Within forty hours the water level rose to the waist. But on Saturday, somewhat spent and without reinforcements, it receded by four inches and cleared the floor. I was informed of the retreat on WhatsApp while packing my bag at night for the morning flight back to Guwahati.

Sometimes it can drizzle for days, and the world may become still. Nothing happens and nobody moves.

After six months in a city, the village, drenched in the dark yellow green shit water, seemed once again to be drowned in the distinctive riverside sadness that I had known growing up. The afternoon smelled of cattle and shit. Makeshift tents stood pitched on both sides of the main concrete road. Fodder and various types of fecal matter covered the rest of the road space. Women cooked by their tents. Bare-bodied men sat, strolled, and slept here and there; Children cried, laughed, ran, shouted, and played games.

The farther I went from the main road the sadder the place became. Ponds, gardens, and roads merged into a watery desolation. The houses had shed their paint and plaster, and stood grotesquely in the cold swamp, wishing for the sun. Women sat on beds mounted on bricks in their verandas, or by their windows, sulking, and wishing for the sun. When I reached home after walking a hundred meters in water that rose up to the thighs, I sat on a chair in the veranda and wished for the sun too.

The same day, Sunday, towards the evening, news came that the mathauri, the embankment, was about to give in towards the east. On TV people heard about the frequent opening of floodgates in some dam in Arunachal Pradesh. They heard about the relentless rains in the mountains. And about the inexplicable sorrow that had blessed the state with a visitation.

The next morning when we woke up, the floor was once again under water.


The Raft

Rescued Proletarians and Frightened Doggos.

It’s ancient wisdom to build rafts with floating tree trunks during watery epidemics. Not many years back, when I still wasn’t infected with extravagant sauces and European cheeses, we used to race banana rafts from one high mound to another. The formation, classic: one kid to the front for propelling, one to the back to navigate. For the kids, the flood was a respite from School and the overarching, all-pervading, existential burden; and making rafts was a joyous occasion. Finding strong banana trees in privately owned woods, felling them and trying to smuggle them was a task.
On Monday, I went out to to see if a few banana trees could be found, and failed. Later the same day, some elderly men were scandalised at the news that someone was selling three-trunk rafts for 250 rupees. I made a mental note to find that person and buy his boat.

My father knows a band of four workers, led by my father’s go-to man Kumar, who help us out whenever we need them. I had once told father that despite the informal nature of the relationship between him and them as employer and employees, the hierarchical oppression remains effective. That they are proletarian subjects with no class consciousness, happy with the meager salary, and father’s kindness and friendship. What he told me in reply needs a blog piece of its own.

They are an interesting bunch. Jacks of all trades. Before the flood, when I was still in Delhi, they had made us a few sturdy tables; elevated the floor in the granary; moved beds from my aunt’s establishment in the market to our house. Without them, my people would have had a hard time preparing for the flood.

On Tuesday, two days after my arrival, and the second day of the floor being underwater, Kumar and gang arrived on a brand new four-trunk banana raft. It was evidently well built as it carried three men without sinking a bit. They had also loaded it with some planks and a bag of carpentry tools. My father had asked them earlier that day to make a platform in our veranda but he hadn’t ordered the raft. They made it themselves and gave it to us without asking for money. It saved my 250 rupees and lots of hard work; although, the first statement is not entirely true, as they were subsequently paid for the raft. In any case, they set to work at once after having a cup of tea, squatting drenched on the brick fence in the veranda. In half an hour, we had 32 square feet of dry territory. 

Kumar arrives.

The platform built by Kumar and gang, After the flood.

My cousin jokes that I should be given a six-trunker rafting license. While rafts are unsinkable, they are extremely precarious vehicles. Keeping a banana raft on a steady course is a task and it’s generally safe not to overcrowd it, as it tends to flip over when provoked. 

Flood pictures are always bland. Thus this artistry. 

A family of five pet Doggos live with us in the same compound. They aren’t pets in the same sense as Ciroc, a friend's German Shephard, is a pet to him. But we feed them every day and they evidently revere us as the rightful masters. My mother keeps talking about strangling them, but cooks separate food for them every day anyway.

"Floating food tray". That's how a friend reacted to this picture.

When the flood came, they retreated to the granary and wouldn’t come out no matter what. It was getting difficult to get food to them. On the other hand, they had made the storage bin lids their defecation grounds. So, when Kumar arrived with a raft we decided to ferry the dogs to the main road, and subsequently to Kumar’s place, so that they can be looked after. But when the time came, the dogs wouldn’t get on the raft. When we finally succeeded in coaxing them onto the raft, and the men onboard started to oar towards the destination, the doggos panicked, and out of desperation overturned the boat.  

The Fish

The elders reminisce about the days when people caught fish by kilograms in one go. The roads, not being equipped with enough culverts to let water through, overflow every year. People pitch fishing apparatuses by the roads, and pass the time by talking about fish. For the elders, everything’s a downgrade. You will catch only half a kilo of small fish at the most, after pulling and pushing the apparatus lever for four hours. That’s a very bad deal. In the older times, you could catch the big fishes practically in your courtyard in seemingly no time. 

Fishnets for free folks.

Nevertheless, there’s still much enthusiasm alive in the people regarding the fishing job. The first day of the flood brings the first fishes. The current is strong and the air is filled with the anticipation of a familiar anomaly. My cousin borrows a fishnet that night and catches half a kilo of small fish by 2 am. 

 part II (2017)  here

part III (2020) here